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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747634">Next Year in Jerusalem</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawlessassholes/pseuds/flawlessassholes'>flawlessassholes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Jewish, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Jerusalem, M/M, Rosh HaShana | Jewish New Year, Sorry Catholicism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:13:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawlessassholes/pseuds/flawlessassholes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yusuf prays to Allah. Nicolò prays to Adonai. </p><p>It changes everything. It changes nothing. </p><p>(an AU where Nicky's Jewish)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.” </em></p><p><em>—PSALM 137.5–6</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>It’s September in a breezy, light-drenched villa outside Verona. Nicky is slicing a yellow-red apple, which is the same color as the sun that’s beginning to set over the Italian hillside. </p><p>He’s wearing a suit, but his jacket is off, and his crisp white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He’s wearing an apron, too, but in the six months she’s been living and traveling with the Guard that’s not an unusual sight for Nile to see.</p><p>What <em>is </em>an odd sight is the small cap on the back of his head. <em>A yarmulke,</em> her brain supplies helpfully, from her friend Rachel Levi’s Bat Mitzvah in the eighth grade. </p><p>The kitchen smells like honey and fresh-baked bread and roasted chicken. Joe comes in, dressed in a similar suit, though his jacket is still on. He’s wearing a yarmulke too, which— </p><p>Joe raises a long, twisty horn above his head. “I found it!” He says triumphantly. </p><p>Nile watches Nicky turn to Joe, smiling at him. It’s the same smile he <em>always</em> gives Joe, and she always feels like she’s intruding on some private, intimate moment. Every time, every smile. </p><p>Joe wraps his arms around the man and presses his forehead to Nicky’s. “<em>Shanah Tovah, </em>Nicolò,” he says. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Nicky says, but his smile doesn’t go away. “<em>Shanah Tovah</em>. Did you wash?” </p><p>Joe huffs. “Of course.”</p><p>“I’m just saying, wherever you found that it must have been dusty—” </p><p>“It <em>was, </em>but I still <em>washed—</em>” </p><p>“Alright, well,” Nicky cuts him short, setting his knife down. “Dinner’s ready, so get Andy and— oh, good, Nile, you’re here.” </p><p>Nile blinks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” </p><p>Joe cuts her off smoothly. “You’re never intruding unless our pants are off,” he says in a familiar refrain, one he’s been repeating since London, always wanting to make sure Nile feels welcome. “And even then—” </p><p>“Alright, she gets it<em>,” </em>Nicky says. “Nile, Joe <em>should </em>have set the dining room. Do you want wine with dinner?” </p><p>Nile shrugs. “Sure,” she says. “Need help with anything?” </p><p>“Could you carry the bread in? I’ll get the chicken.” </p><p>Nile grabs the round challah and carries it through the double doors to the villa’s formal dining room, where they have yet to eat. They mostly take their meals around the smaller table in the kitchen. The dining room table is set with some fine china she hasn’t seen before, and Nile puts the bread down on a ceramic platter between two candlesticks. </p><p>Andy appears, saying, “finally, I’m <em>starving.” </em></p><p>“It’s like no one ever feeds you, Andy,” Nicky says. He’s carrying a platter of roast chicken surrounded by roasted potatoes and carrots. It smells like rosemary, lemon, saffron and something else, and Nile’s stomach rumbles. </p><p>Joe snorts as he follows Nicky in through the door. He balances a platter of apples and a jar of honey in one hand and a ceramic dish of more potatoes in the other. </p><p>Nile sits. They usually keep the same seats at any given table; Joe and Nicky at the heads and Nile across from Andy. Once he stops messing with the food arrangement on the table, he pulls a pack of matches out of his pocket. He surreptitiously glances outside, where night has begun to encroach. </p><p>“The sun’s not all the way down yet—” </p><p>Andy groans. “Nicky, every <em>year, </em>I swear—” </p><p>Joe just looks amused. “My love, God will forgive you if the sun’s not all the way down.” </p><p>“It’s not <em>God,</em>” Nicky mumbles. “Alright, fine.” He strikes a match, lights the candles, pours some wine into his glass, and closes his eyes. </p><p>Nile didn’t know Nicky was Jewish— honest to God. When he said that he and Joe met in the Crusades, she had assumed that Nicky was Catholic because, well— that’s the story the history books tell<em>. </em>And he was Italian, and— </p><p>Well. She didn’t know then, but she knows now because Nicky’s praying in Hebrew. </p><p>“<em>Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu l’hadlik ner shel yom tov</em>.”</p><p>He opens his eyes. Then, he looks at Nile. “Nile, is this your first Rosh Hashanah seder?” </p><p>Nile blinks in surprise at the question. “Yes?” </p><p>“Alright, I’ll include you in the <em>Shehechiyanu.” </em>He launches into more Hebrew, and then at the end, he adds, “and, <em>Adonai</em>, for Nile’s first seder.” </p><p>She’s touched but also <em>extremely</em> confused. </p><p>Joe’s pouring red wine into their cups, and Nicky’s praying in Hebrew again. She drinks when they all drink from their glasses, and then Nicky reaches for the bread, tears it, and hands it off to Andy, who tears off a piece of her own. Nicky’s <em>still </em>praying. </p><p>Nile tears off some bread when the loaf reaches her, and she eats it when everyone else does. Then, Nicky starts carving into the chicken, and Andy helps herself to some potatoes, so Nile figures that all the prayer is over. </p><p>Joe hands his plate to Nicky, who begins portioning out a helping of chicken and carrots. “Looks beautiful, my heart<em>.</em>” </p><p>Nicky smiles and gestures to Nile for her plate, which she hands over dutifully. </p><p>“Can I ask a question?” Nile says. </p><p>Joe’s eyes twinkle in the candlelight. “You didn’t know he was Jewish,” he says before Nicky can answer. </p><p>“Uh, no,” Nile says, taking her plate back from Nicky, now filled with food. “I thought he was the opposite, actually. An Italian Catholic, right?” </p><p>“My father was,” Nicky says. Now that each plate is filled, he takes his seat and takes a drink from his glass of wine. “My mother was a Jew.” </p><p>“But I thought you met in the Crusades?” </p><p>“Oh, that’s all true,” Joe says easily. “But I didn’t know after the first few times I killed him that he was trying to <em>defend</em> the city with me, not attack it.” </p><p>“It was a miscommunication,” Nicky says, with just as much ease. </p><p>“Okay, clearly you two have been holding out on your story,” Nile says, thinking back to the first time she met Nicky and Joe. <em>The love of my life was of the people I’ve been taught to hate.</em></p><p>A Muslim man and a Jewish man, in love for a millennia? <em>Jesus,</em> Nile thinks without a trace of irony. The shit they must’ve been through. </p><p>“Alright, alright,” Nicky says. “We’ll tell you. It starts in Jerusalem—” </p><p>“The 25th of Shaban, 492,” Joe supplies. </p><p>“You mean the 17th of Tamuz, 4859,” Nicky counters. </p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Andy says. “It was July 15th, 1099. She doesn’t know your calendars.” </p><p>Joe and Nicky share a fond look, and Nicky says, “alright, Jerusalem in July 1099—” </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“The view of Jerusalem is the history of the world; it is more; it is the history of heaven and earth.”  </em>
</p><p>—<em>BENJAMIN DISRAELI, Tancred</em></p><p>---</p><p>Nicolò had bitten his thumbnail to the quick. He hadn’t slept well in a fortnight, not since the ride to Jerusalem from Jaffa. The ride had been long and exhausting, and he had been fighting ever since he arrived, defending the south walls of Jerusalem, which protected the Jew’s quarter. The invaders had approached from the northeast, but they surrounded the city and broke through the walls. </p><p>They were in the city now, the invaders, wearing their red crosses, riled up by a pope a thousand miles away. They came to liberate the city, a city that needed no liberation.</p><p>Nicolò couldn’t lose focus now. He could <em>hear</em> the bloodshed from beyond the Jew’s quarter as the Crusaders made their way through the streets, brandishing swords so much like his own. His father gave him this sword when he last sailed from Genoa to Jaffa. </p><p>His father, the bastard, the <em>traitor,</em> had spent <em>years</em> trying to convince Nicolò to accept Jesus and Mary and pledge his allegiance to Peter and the Apostles, to leave the <em>old </em>behind. To join the priesthood, even, and threatened him with his inheritance, his words, his hands. </p><p>Nicolò entertained entering the Yeshiva to study. To become a Rabbi<em>.</em> His father said if he loved God so much, he should pray to his son, the messiah. Nicolò would always retort that the messiah was no son of God, and that he had sworn not to worship false idols. </p><p>That usually earned Nicolò a beating, which was his father’s way of attempting to convince Nicolò when his words failed. </p><p>He hated his father’s business, hated working for him and carrying his goods across the Mediterranean to sell them in Jaffa and Jerusalem and Haifa. He was good at it, with a talent for language and a head for arithmetic. He could speak Genoese and Greek and Aramaic and Arabic. He spoke Hebrew, of course, though not in front of others. His father always said that the only good thing about having a godforsaken Jew for a son was that they were born mercantilists. </p><p>His plan since the winter had been to leave his father’s business, as he had finally saved enough of his minimal earnings. He planned to return to Jerusalem where he was born and where he grew up, save for his time working for his father’s trading business, traveling around the Mediterranean from Genoa to Jaffa and back. He never liked working for him, but his mother said it was his duty to honor his father. </p><p>He always wanted to protest that the man had no right to the title; after all, he had abandoned the woman he knocked up when he was passing through Jerusalem to make a trade. He could begrudgingly admit that Genoa was beautiful, that he enjoyed his time there over the years, but he had always felt more at home here, in his mother’s city, which is why he wanted to move back permanently. He was going to study and take care of his mother and perhaps find a wife.  </p><p>He meant to tell this to his father in May when Nicolò was last in Genoa to give his father his earnings and restock his goods for trade. He didn’t have a chance— this time his father didn’t pester him to join the priesthood, but instead take up the Cross and join the crusade to liberate Jerusalem from the Saracens. </p><p><em>“Jerusalem is the city of the Jews and the Christians, no?”</em> His father said, ever so manipulative. <em>“To defeat the Saracens is to pray on your Temple Mount, is it not? It’s a worthy cause, even for a Jew.”</em></p><p>He sent him off with a longsword, the sword of the Crusaders. He didn’t have it with him when he and his mother were walking amongst the olive groves outside the southern walls a week before. A Crusader —a member of the army’s scouts, surely— shot her with an arrow. Nicolò only had the small knife he carried on him because he wasn’t an idiot. </p><p>That was the first man Nicolò had killed, and it awakened something in him. Something visceral, less than human. He killed the man with ease, despite only having a knife to aid him. He was good at killing; he <em>felt </em>that, thrumming beneath his skin like muscle memory. </p><p>He held his mother as she died, praying the <em>Shema</em> with her, rocking her in his arms as he felt the beat of her heart slow, then stop. He had nothing to bury her with, so he laid her under an olive tree and prayed the Mourner’s Kaddish. He meant to come back for her, with a shovel, but—</p><p>But the Crusaders encircled the walls of Jerusalem, and he fought. He fought until his hands shook and his body was past the point of exhaustion, and he saw his father’s face in every Crusader he killed until he forgot what it was like to see the light of his mother’s eyes fade. </p><p>A Crusader, killed by the sword of their choice. Nicolò was a man of few words, but he appreciated the symbolism. </p><p>He hated using the sword his father had purchased, but he used it now because it was an effective weapon and the Crusaders had been trained to fight against scimitars. Thus far, in every battle, the invaders were caught off guard by a weapon of their own kind. He hated wielding the sword, but it was working. Nicolò had yet to die, which was more than he could say for so many Jews and Muslims in the city. </p><p>His father would kill him if he saw Nicolò now, clutching the sword, fighting alongside those <em>Saracens,</em> guarding a synagogue of Jewish women and children fearing for their lives, for their husbands and brothers and sons, all fighting to save their city. </p><p>He could hear the screams. He could hear the panicked whispers from the women and children hiding within. The Crusaders had to be getting closer to the inner streets of the city. </p><p>Nicolò couldn’t wait any longer. “<em>Shema Yisrael Adonai, eloheinu Adonai ehad,</em>” he said to himself. He didn’t know if there was a point in saying it— what protection could it offer to profess his faith to a God that let so many suffer? But Jews were a people of tradition, of their book and their ritual. If there was no God, he would still say the prayer. If not to protect himself, to demand that God protect his people —those cowering inside their temples, in their holiest city— from <em>this</em>. </p><p>He crept out from the gates of the synagogue and looked left. There was a brutal scuffle between a few Muslim men and a few of the pale Crusaders, their cross-covered armor covered in blood. </p><p>Nicolò ran over, his sword raised above his head. They were encroaching on the Synagogue, and he couldn’t allow the invaders to get any closer. </p><p>His sword clashed against those swords, drenched in blood, sweat, and blood dripping into his eyes until he could barely see. There was one bearded man left, defending himself valiantly against the invaders, swearing under his breath, cursing in Arabic. Nicolò was raising his sword to help him when the man ran him through with his scimitar. </p><p>“Motherfucker,” the man spat out in Arabic. “Motherfucking <em>invader—” </em></p><p>Oh, fuck <em>that.</em> Now Nicolò was mad and faintly aware that he was dying. </p><p>“No, fuck <em>you,</em>” he said in Arabic, and the man’s eyes widened before Nicolò hacked at the man’s neck with his longsword until Nicolò couldn’t raise his arms, and blood and sinew spilled from the man’s throat.</p><p>Before he died he fleetingly thought that he probably shouldn’t have done that. </p><p>It was alright, though, because the death didn’t stick for long. </p><p>He awoke covered in blood and his own piss, which was embarrassing. He stood and tried to figure out what the fuck he should do about the piss situation. He barely had time to think about the fact that he was <em>not </em>dead when he felt a sharp sensation and looked down to a scimitar in his belly, <em>again. </em></p><p>He looked up to the same man who killed him before. He couldn’t even say, <em>are you fucking kidding me </em>before he choked on his own blood. </p><p>The man twisted the scimitar. “<em>Stay dead, motherfucker—” </em></p><p>Nicolò died again. But just as before, he didn’t stay dead. </p><p>He awoke with a soft gasp, no more than an exhale, and turned his head to the side. </p><p>The man was still there, a few feet away, wiping the blood off his sword with his tunic. Nicolò looked around, but his sword was gone, leaving him unarmed.</p><p>He picked up a stone and crept up behind the man. The man must have seen him in his periphery, but Nicolò bashed the stone over the man’s head before he could react. He collapsed, but Nicolò didn’t let up. He dropped the stone and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck.</p><p>“<em>Motherfucker, I’m trying to help you—</em>” Nicolò said in Arabic, and the man looked confused, then furious, and ran Nicolò through again. </p><p>As he died, he thought that he should probably take the other man’s sword away before he killed him again. </p><p>This time he awoke with a gasp of breath nearly at the same time as the man next to him. He picked up the man’s scimitar and stood. He didn’t have time to think about the fact that they were both alive again before the man stood, his fists curled like he was ready to kill Nicolò again, with just his bare hands if necessary. </p><p>Nicolò raised his sword, the scimitar unfamiliar and unbalanced in his hands, but he dropped the sword before he could strike. The scimitar clattered to the blood-soaked cobblestone, and the man looked confused, but Nicolò could barely breathe. </p><p>The synagogue was on fire. </p><p>Before he knew it, he was running, sprinting towards the building. He could hear the screams inside, and he could hear the man calling after him in Arabic, calling for him to stop. </p><p>The smoke was thick and black and foul, and he couldn’t see. He couldn’t see <em>anyone.</em> </p><p>“Forgive me,” he begged, looking to the sky. Night was falling— they should have been welcoming the week with the havdalah, not fucking <em>burning—</em> </p><p>He kept repeating that, <em>forgive me,</em> over and over again, as the flames licked at his skin, and smoke and ashes choked him, and the world turned to black again. </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“Allah, may He be praised, said of Jerusalem. You are my Garden of Eden, my hallowed and chosen land.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>—KAAB AL-AHBAR, Fadail</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>“But I don’t understand,” Nile says, picking up her glass of wine. “Nicky, you said Joe was one of the people you were taught to hate? But you— you were defending the city together?” </p><p>“He wasn’t lying,” Joe says. “It wasn’t easy to be a Jew and live under the Caliphate.” </p><p>“It wasn’t easy to be a Jew anywhere,” Nicky says. “It was an— uneasy cooperation, Jews and Muslims in Jerusalem.” </p><p>“He’s being kind,” Joe says. “Where were we? The fire?” </p><p>Nicky nods, and Joe picks up the story, exactly where Nicky left off as if they were one singular storyteller.</p><p>---</p><p>Yusuf thought as he watched the man’s skin heal and un-blacken, like charred chicken uncooking, that this was a very strange Frank. </p><p>He also thought that it was probably a stupid idea to follow the man into the burning synagogue. </p><p>Yusuf died too, for the third time that day, choking on the smoke with flames on his skin as he tried to pull the Frank out of the fire. He didn’t know why the man went in. He didn’t understand why <em>he </em>went in. He should have left, but he pledged to protect Jerusalem and <em>all </em>its residents, even the Jews.</p><p>Now they were naked —their clothes burning alongside the rest of the synagogue— and Yusuf was patiently waiting for the other man to wake up so he could ask him <em>what the fuck</em> and then kill him again. </p><p>But Yusuf was an impatient man who had yet to learn that particular virtue. He wasn’t a particularly virtuous man anyway, but his impatience was particularly severe. </p><p>That severe impatience caused Yusuf to poke the man with the tip of his scimitar. A prick of blood welled up and disappeared almost instantaneously. </p><p>The man groaned and opened one eye. He lay face down, his stomach pressed to the rubble and ash. </p><p><em>He must be a quick one, </em>Yusuf thought, because he blinked, and the man was on top of him, his hands closing around Yusuf’s throat. “I could have saved them,” the Frank said in perfect Arabic. “I could have saved them if you hadn’t fucking killed me.” </p><p>Yusuf wanted to point out that the Frank had killed him, too, and also ask why the Frank could speak Arabic so well. But then the Frank squeezed harder, and Yusuf choked and died. </p><p>He woke up, and the Frank was sitting, now. He hadn’t covered himself yet, instead turning the scimitar over in his hands, a blank look on his face.  </p><p>Yusuf didn’t mean to look —<em>honestly— </em>but he still caught sight of the other man’s cock, and that caused him to sit up. He’d fucked enough men in Jerusalem to know that man wasn’t a Frank. </p><p>“You’re a Jew,” he said in Arabic. </p><p>The man looked at Yusuf with a dead-eyed stare. He didn’t <em>look</em> like a Jew— well, except for his cock, and his nose, maybe— with his pale, smooth skin and fair, shaggy hair. </p><p>“Yes,” the man responded with that perfect Arabic once more. “So there was no need to kill me.” </p><p>“Which time?” Yusuf said, aiming for levity. The look the man gave him told him that he had missed. </p><p>“I could have saved them. I came here to protect them, and I—” The man looked around the ashes of the synagogue. </p><p>The destruction wasn’t new. He’d seen the blood run through the streets, rivers of it, clogging the drains and drenching the cobblestone in red. “The Franks wouldn’t stop until they killed everyone. Jew or Muslim,” he said because he had failed, too. </p><p>The man didn’t respond.</p><p>“Where did you come from?” With still no response, Yusuf pressed forward, his curiosity overwhelming his common sense. “You said you came here to protect them. Where did you come from?” </p><p>“Ah,” he said. “Jaffa. But my mother lives—” He exhales, cutting off the sentence. “Lived. Lived here. I grew up here.”  </p><p>Yusuf extended his hand. “Yusuf,” he said. </p><p>“Just Yusuf?” The man asked. He didn’t take Yusuf’s hand. </p><p>“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad Al-Kaysani,” he said at length, lowering his hand. “I go by Yusuf. What about you?” </p><p>“Nicolò di Genova,” the man said. <em>Nicolò.</em> </p><p>“That’s not a Jew’s name,” Yusuf said. </p><p>A dark look crossed Nicolò’s face. “My father. He didn’t want me to face any… disadvantages. Or— rather, he didn’t want any disadvantages to his trading business. He’s Genoese. My Hebrew name is Noach ben-Avraham v’Chava ha-Kohen.” </p><p>“A Genoese Jew,” Yusuf said. “They must marvel at you.” </p><p>Nicolò looked up sharply. “I’m not— do <em>not—” </em>He took a deep breath. “Do not compare me to those men. I use the name because I want to earn a living and survive. I’m not like—” Nicolò looked around the burnt synagogue. “I’m nothing like them.” </p><p>Yusuf wanted to ask another question, now that they had seemingly taken a pause in killing each other, but he heard footsteps and drunken laughter. <em>Fuck. </em></p><p>Nicolò had the same reaction as Yusuf, and almost in sync, they moved behind a wall that was still standing, shielding themselves from the street. </p><p>“Those fucking bastards,” Nicolò said. “I want to kill them all,” </p><p>Yusuf nodded. “I concur wholeheartedly, but it probably wouldn’t be best to attack them naked.” </p><p>Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “Why not? It’s not like they can’t cut anything off that won’t grow back.” </p><p>Yusuf supposed the man had a point. “Your sword is in the alleyway over there,” he said, jerking his thumb towards the alleyway just beyond the synagogue’s walls. “I hid it so you would stop killing me.” </p><p>“Well,” Nicolò said. “It wasn’t as if I needed it, did I? Nor did it take.” </p><p>Yusuf supposed that was true, too. He didn’t want to examine how sensible the other man was or why he agreed with him so much. </p><p>Still, he picked up his scimitar and followed the man into the street.</p><p>It seemed much easier to fight with Nicolò by his side rather than against him. The man moved like he was born for battle, his naked muscles flexing and veins pulsing as he swung his longsword through the air, not with quick parries and feints like Yusuf and his scimitar, but rather as if he was swinging a battle axe, deadly and swift through the air. </p><p>Twenty minutes later and another death apiece, Yusuf and Nicolò stood over a pair of dead invaders. They were naked and out of breath, and their bodies shone in the rising sun as day began to break over the besieged walls of Jerusalem. The odd, purple light of the hour reflected the still-wet sweat and blood covering their bodies. </p><p>If that blood was theirs, or their enemies’, Yusuf was unable to say.  </p><p>“As fun as this was,” Yusuf said, “I want to go look for survivors. See if I can offer any protection.” </p><p>Nicolò nodded. “I should do the same,” he said. He bent down and pulled the braies off a dead Frank, pulling them on. Yusuf did the same. </p><p>“My home is a few roads over,” Yusuf said. “I have a shirt you could wear, you could wash, eat maybe—” </p><p>Nicolò raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “You live here?” </p><p>“I’m— renting,” Yusuf said. Most defending Jerusalem had come from the battles in Antioch and Ramla. Yusuf joined the fight here, his commander keeping him from riding towards the battle to train younger men when he learned that Yusuf studied <em>Furusiyya</em> and was a skilled swordsman.</p><p>“I was beginning my hajj, and I have a cousin living here. I came to pray and study before continuing on.” Then, with the then-looming invasion, he had joined Jerusalem’s defense. </p><p>“You would invite a <em>dhimmi</em> into your home?”</p><p>Yusuf sighed. </p><p>He knew that the life of Jews in Jerusalem was— fine. Strained, maybe. Contentious. Across the Maghreb, it could be worse. His father had always taught him and his brothers to respect their brethren, but he knew others mistrusted the Jews they came across in trade.</p><p>But Yusuf was a student, as was his privilege as the youngest of so many sons and with a bad sense for business. </p><p>He knew about the taxes that Jews paid, their coin for protection but with unequal status. He studied history. He knew about Fez, about the destruction of so many temples, their relegation to praying at the walls below the Mount and how they had once been allowed to pray alongside the Muslims. </p><p>At the turn of the century, his teachers said, the Caliph Hakim ordered Jews to wear a wooden cow necklace to remind them of the Golden Calf and bells to alert Muslims of their approach. He ordered Synagogues to be destroyed and turned them into Mosques. He ordered the Jews to convert or leave. But Hakim was despised by all, even the Muslims, and the Caliph Zahir restored peace and unity within the city’s walls. </p><p>It was ancient history, was it not? A hundred years before. Long before his time, or Nicolò’s, as they looked to be of the same age. Jews and Muslims— and even Christians— all lived side-by-side in their quarters, coming to the jewel of their religion to study and pray. </p><p>Nicolò said his father was Genoese, though it was clearly not a subject he wished to discuss. Perhaps his apprehension went further than his life under the Seljuks or the Caliphates. Maybe it was a deeper hatred. Maybe Nicolò thought of Yusuf as a <em>Saracen</em> and hated him just as much as the Christians coming to ‘liberate’ Jerusalem. </p><p>Maybe they both held prejudices.  </p><p>If they were friends, if they trusted each other, perhaps Yusuf would try to understand or empathize or give assurances. Maybe they both held prejudices, but they certainly held swords, ones that had already touched the other’s blood.</p><p>“Do we not have a common enemy, at this moment?” Yusuf finally said. He didn’t look at Nicolò, instead staring at the pile of bloody bodies devoid of life. “There will be more who will try to kill us.” </p><p>“It isn’t as if they’ll succeed,” Nicolò responded, his expression still unreadable. </p><p>“I’m just offering food and a basin of water,” Yusuf snapped. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take my leave.” He wouldn’t give his help to a man who didn’t want it, so he turned up the street. He heard a soft curse in Hebrew from behind him, then Genoese, like the man couldn’t decide which language to curse Yusuf in. </p><p>Nicolò caught up to him. “Fine,” he said. “Thank you for your generosity.” </p><p>The words were polite, but Nicolò’s tone was as bitter as an unripe lemon and his pursed lips looked like he just ate one.  </p><p>Yusuf didn’t live too far from the Jew’s quarter, where he and Nicolò had been. His rooms were near the Maghrebi gate, close to the markets. </p><p>They crept along the streets, still clutching their weapons, ducking into alleyways to hide from the Crusaders, drunk on their wine and victory, looting through the stalls along the streets and ducking in and out of homes. Jerusalem was silent, save for the Franks’ drunken laughter and jeers, who surely were too drunk to realize that their night of celebration was continuing on into the day. </p><p>It was daybreak. At daybreak, Jerusalem came to life. The minaret should be sounding for <em>Fajr</em>. The city would burst to life then, as men came back from their prayers and bought breakfast and set about to their routines. </p><p>There was no life in Jerusalem that morning. Only death. </p><p>He pushed open the door to his flat —unlocked— and found it ransacked. It wasn’t a large space by any means, but to see his furniture littered across the floor, mud and blood trampled over his clothing and his prayer rug—</p><p>He swore softly under his breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Nicolò was righting an overturned chair. </p><p>“I’ll fetch water from the well,” Yusuf said, grabbing a large pitcher. “If you find something that fits, feel free to take it.” </p><p>The courtyard was deserted, except for Ostatha Maryam, the ancient matriarch that lived in the flat above him, who reminded Yusuf of his grandmother. Her belly was covered in blood. </p><p>“Ostatha Maryam,” Yusuf said, rushing to her. “Ostatha Maryam, I’m so sorry—” </p><p>“Yusuf,” she said, lifting a trembling hand, soft and wrinkled, covered in sunspots. She placed a hand on Yusuf’s. “Water, <em>Habibi, </em>please—” </p><p>She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Yusuf drew water from the well and filled the pitcher, and brought it back over to the woman. He held it carefully, bringing it to her lips, trying not to slosh the water onto her, but failing. “Ostatha Maryam, what happened?” </p><p>“Yusuf, you need to leave,” she said. “They took the boys,” —her sons— “and they took their wives, their children, they took them all. They’ll sell them, they said, they said I was worthless. Yusuf, you must <em>leave.</em>” </p><p>Now his hands were trembling. “I’ll stay here with you,” he said, trying to keep his eyes on hers and not the blood that was pooling on the linen of her dress. </p><p>“Oh Yusuf, you sweet boy,” she said. “You always reminded me of my husband, always trying to prevent the inevitable.” She closed her eyes, and Yusuf put the pitcher to the side, holding her hands in his. The day grew hot, but her hands were ice cold. </p><p>“My time has come,” Ostatha Maryam said. “It comes for us all. It will be good, all will be good, <em>inshallah</em>, Yusuf, please, pray with me,” she said, and she began reciting the <em>Shahada,</em> so familiar, and Yusuf joined her. </p><p><em>Ashadu an la ilaha illa illa-ilah, wa ashadu anna Muhammadan rasul Ullah, </em>he repeated with her, over and over, until her voice grew faint and her hands went slack. </p><p>He found himself waiting for her to rise, as he now did, to shake off death. If anyone deserved it, it was Ostatha Maryam, a holy woman, so kind and pure. </p><p>She did not rise. Yusuf did. He laid her gently on the ground and covered her with her scarf. </p><p>He refilled the water and went back to the flat. </p><p>--- </p><p>
  <em>“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>—PSALMS 122:6</em>
</p><p>--- </p><p>
“What happened next?” Nile asks. They’ve moved on to dessert, sweet honey cake, and chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds. </p><p>Joe, quieter now, does not seem inclined to continue, so as easy as air, Nicky picks up the thread. “The flat was ransacked—”</p><p>--- </p><p>Nicolò wondered if he should clean up the apartment any further. It wasn’t as if he could stay here long. If the Crusaders ransacked it once, surely they would come back to rest and recover from their hangovers now that they knew it was furnished. </p><p>But he had righted the chairs and cleared the broken bowls and cups from the table, tossing them out the window and into the street. He selected a shirt and pants that looked as if they might fit but didn’t dare to put them on as filthy as he was. </p><p>The door opened, and Nicolò reached for his sword, but it was Yusuf, who looked different from how he’d looked when he’d left. Sad, or angry, or— <em>lost, </em>his brain supplied.</p><p>Nicolò released the handle of the sword, but he didn’t relax. </p><p>“We can’t stay here,” Yusuf said, his bare back to Nicolò, as he poured the pitcher of water into a basin. “They’re going through the courtyards and residences, looking for those still alive that they can sell.” </p><p>Nicolò figured as much, but— “We?” </p><p>The man turned, his arms crossing. “You want to stay here and get sold into slavery? Fine by me.” </p><p>Nicolò said nothing. Yusuf looked like he had in battle— hard. Prepared to attack.</p><p>“Aren’t you curious?” Yusuf asked, his expression softening. “I cannot die. You cannot die. Our wounds heal impossibly fast.” </p><p>Nicolò <em>was</em> curious, but he still said nothing. </p><p>Yusuf shook his head. “What, is this commonplace for you? I don’t know any Jews that can live forever. Is that something unique to Genoa?” </p><p>Nicolò snorted. “You think we’re immortal?” </p><p>Yusuf took the seat that Nicolò had righted. “If we cannot die, if we heal— surely we’re immortal?” </p><p>Nicolò considered that. Would he age? He tried to imagine a life in one hundred years and couldn’t. “Surely, it’s not immortality. That’s— impossible. It’s just—” </p><p>Yusuf snorted. “What, a blessing? Which God has blessed us, a Muslim and a Jew? Mine, or yours?” </p><p>“It’s the same God, no?” Nicolò said. “The God of <em>Avraham</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Ibrahim,</em>” Yusuf corrected. “But, yes. I’d suppose so.” </p><p>A dark thought occurred to Nicolò then. What if he was the Messiah, the one the Christians claimed to have found in the Nazarethian? </p><p> “A smile,” Yusuf said. “I was beginning to think you were incapable. What’s so funny?” </p><p>Nicolò tried to wipe the smile off his face, but still, he said, “I thought that I may be the Messiah we’ve been waiting for. Perhaps you are another prophet.” </p><p>“Muhammed, peace be upon him, is the final prophet,” Yusuf said immediately. “But I couldn’t be one, regardless.” </p><p>Nicolò raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” </p><p>“I am a sinner, Nicolò,” Yusuf said gravely, though Nicolò could see the corners of his mouth ticking upward. “I—”</p><p>There was a clatter outside, and Yusuf stood, the humor leaving his face as he rushed to the window. He swore, then said, “it’s the fucking Franks.” </p><p>“How many?” Nicolò asked as he stood. </p><p>“A dozen, maybe,” Yusuf said. </p><p>“Do you have a pack?” </p><p>Yusuf turned to Nicolò and blinked. “What?” </p><p>“A pack,” Nicolò said, his tone turning to urgency. “Some clothes, some food if there’s any left, a skin of water? A pack?” </p><p>Yusuf seemed stalled still but said, “yes,” which seemed to spur him into action. He disappeared into the other room and returned with a canvas pack and a skin. He tossed the skin to Nicolò, who caught it in midair, and turned to the basin, dunking the skin beneath the water until it was full. </p><p>Yusuf was a flurry of activity now, moving around the room, shoving clothing at random into the pack. He opened a cupboard and let out a harsh exhale. “They took the food,” he said. </p><p>“It’s less than a day’s ride to Jaffa,” Nicolò said. “If we can find some horses, we’ll be able to find food once we get there.” </p><p>Yusuf nodded. He tied the drawstring of the pack and threw it over his shoulder. “Do you know where these horses might be?” </p><p>Nicolò nodded. “Follow me, and keep your scimitar at the ready,” he said as he saddled the skin of water around his shoulder and grabbed his longsword. </p><p>They managed to evade the invaders by sneaking out the back of the courtyard. They passed the bloody body of a dead grandmother, and Nicolò watched as Yusuf shuddered, turning his head away from the sight as they passed. </p><p>His reaction almost made Nicolò change his mind, to say that they should go out the front and fight their way through every last invader. It would have been much more satisfying, but time was of the essence. </p><p>Nicolò knew the butcher kept a pair of horses outside the slaughterhouse, and he led Yusuf through the Jew’s quarter with ease. </p><p>Though as the sun grew stronger in the sky, the stench of the city became overwhelming. Blood, shit, piss, and vomit all curled around the still-smoldering synagogues. The city reeked of death, and it invaded Nicolò’s senses, choking him as he buried his nose in the crook of his elbow to mitigate the stench. It didn’t help, but it was comforting to see that Yusuf seemed just as bothered by the smell and was covering his face, too. </p><p>There was only one horse there, still tied behind the now-destroyed slaughterhouse, and Yusuf deftly untied it. </p><p>“No saddle,” Yusuf said.</p><p>Nicolò snorted. “What does it matter? It’s against the law to ride a horse in the Muslim fashion.” If there were saddles here, he’d have to defer to Yusuf and give the man his saddle. Such were the laws of Umar, which stayed in place long after the man passed on as Caliph. </p><p>Nicolò watched as a dark look crossed Yusuf’s face before the man hoisted himself onto the horse with ease. <em>He must be trained in horsemanship,</em> Nicolò thought. </p><p>“Are you coming up?” Yusuf said, holding out his hand to Nicolò. </p><p>Nicolò laughed then, a full-throated laugh of disbelief. “Where are you from that a Muslim will allow a Jew to share his horse?” </p><p>“Mahdia,” Yusuf said. “The city was raided by the Genoese if you recall. My father’s ship was burned in the harbor eight years ago.” </p><p>“I am no Genoese raider,” Nicolò said, tensing. </p><p>“And I am not the Caliph,” Yusuf said. “You are not a lesser man than I, and what do the laws matter as we escape a city under siege? If you want to walk, fine. But it won’t be because of <em>my </em>pride.”</p><p>Nicolò stared at the man and briefly considered walking out of spite. Still, he mounted the horse —with much less grace than Yusuf— and wondered where to put his hands. </p><p>“On my hips, for fuck’s sake,” Yusuf snapped as if he could read Nicolò’s mind. “Unless you want to fall off and die. I hear trampling under hooves is a particularly painful way to go.”  </p><p>Nicolò said nothing except, “go through the gate there.”  </p><p>“Perhaps you should be guiding,” Yusuf said. </p><p>“You seem to be a better horseman. Once we get around the mountain, it’s a familiar route,” Nicolò said. “If we go around Mount Zion from the south through Hinnom valley, it’ll take longer, but we’ll be less likely to encounter the army.” </p><p>“I don’t know these lands as well as you,” Yusuf said. “Tell me if I make a wrong turn.” </p><p>Nicolò nodded. “You said you were living in the city, though? How long have you been here?” </p><p>“A year or so.” </p><p>“That’s a long time to put off your pilgrimage,” Nicolò said. He could feel Yusuf tense under his hands. </p><p>“I wanted to study,” Yusuf finally said. “Learn the city. And do you know what I learned?” Nicolò didn’t respond, so Yusuf continued. </p><p>“I’ve learned that we’re more alike than we think. We are both sons of the people of the Book, are we not? Our books end differently, but they begin the same. It is inscribed around the Dome, is it not? ‘O People of the Book, do not go beyond the bounds of your religion and do not speak anything about God except the truth. Indeed the Messiah Jesus, son of Mary, was only a messenger of God, so believe in God and in His messengers and do not say ‘three’… It is not for God to take a son,” Yusuf finished. </p><p>“Is that not an indictment of Trinitarianism, less than a welcoming of Jews?” Nicolò countered. “Was it not the Muslims who built a gold dome upon the ruins of our holiest site? Or who relegated us to second-class citizens in our own city?” </p><p>“But I did not do that, Nicolò,” Yusuf said. “Nor did any of the men who fought alongside you and hundreds of other Jews to save our beloved city. It’s a complex situation, but if you carry hate in your heart for every Saracen, that makes you no better than the Frankish invaders.” </p><p>“That’s—” Nicolò began, trying to find the words. It had been a long fortnight of exhaustion and fighting, and it was hard to remember the good in the world. His synagogue in Jaffa, which rested between a church and a mosque in peaceful coexistence. That at his core, he believed in the fundamental good of mankind— it was what drew him to study Torah, to join the Rabbinate. That Christians and Muslims and Jews all shared Jerusalem, cherished Jerusalem, just as Muslims and Christians and Jews did all over the world. These three religions of Avraham were not the only ones in the world— there were the Zoroastrians, the far East faiths, and those who prayed to the older gods of pantheons long ago. </p><p>Who was this man in front of him to shift his worldview so rapidly? To reorient him to the daylight?</p><p>“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, his tone softer. “I believe we will know each other for a long time. The rest of our lives, however long that may be. For how could we part from each other, knowing what we do?” </p><p>Nicolò did not respond to that, so Yusuf continued. “We learn from the same prophets. The same city is holy to us. You call your God Adonai, I call mine Allah, but they are the same God. If we are to know each other, we must look past our differences and learn to trust our similarities.” </p><p>Nicolò shook his head, a small smile rising to his face. “Will I have to listen to this insufferable poetry for a lifetime?” </p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf said without hesitation. “Now, which way to Jaffa?” </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“Eternity means Jerusalem.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>—TALMUD, Tractate Berachot</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>“—And that’s the story,” Nicky says. He hands a washed plate to Joe to dry. The villa has a dishwasher, but Nicky told Nile that he doesn’t trust machinery with his fine china.</p><p>“But to be together throughout history— what you two must have seen—”  Nile says. She’s sitting at the nook, finishing the dregs of her wine. </p><p>“We’ve seen a lot,” Joe allows. “It hasn’t always been easy.” </p><p>“Marrakesh in 1146, that was bad,” Nicky says. “And in the Fourth Lateran Council, Pope Innocent III said that ‘Jews and Saracens of both sexes in every Christian province and at all times shall be marked off in the eyes of the public from other peoples through the character of their dress,’ the pompous dick.”</p><p>“Or the Inquisition—” the words fall out of Joe’s mouth, and Nile watches as the both of them give an involuntary shudder. </p><p>“Don’t say the words ‘Alhambra Decree’ around us; it’ll give us night terrors,” Nicky says, though he doesn’t seem too serious. </p><p>“But what about—” Nile pauses, “you know, Islamophobia?” </p><p>Joe stills then, resting his chin on a dried plate. “It hasn’t been easy,” he allows. “The 21st century hasn’t been as tolerant as we were hoping. 9/11 was—” </p><p>“The aftermath—” Nicky says, and they both fall silent. Nicky laces his hand through Joe’s, and  Nile watches as he squeezes it gently. </p><p>“And then the bullshit in the EU—” Nicky continues, and Joe lets out a huff. </p><p>“Oh, don’t even get me started. Banning halal and kosher slaughter, what the fuck is that?” </p><p>“Have you ever been back to Jerusalem?” Nile asks. </p><p>“Oh, plenty of times,” Nicky says easily. “Though last time we went, Joe discovered his favorite shisha lounge had been turned into an Aroma Cafe.” </p><p>“I love their Iced Aromas,” Joe says mournfully. “But that was my favorite place!” </p><p>“We have an apartment on Shadad street,” Nicky says. “We’ve had it for what—”  </p><p>“600 years?” Joe says. “Give or take a few decades.” </p><p>Nile bites her lip, wondering if she should even ask the next question. It’s so complicated, and they’ve been so generous with their story. What if this offends them? </p><p>“What about—” Nile takes a deep breath. “What about the conflict?” </p><p>Nicky hums, and Joe looks thoughtful. They don’t ask her to clarify what conflict. </p><p>“I mean, you two— you’re like, OG’s from Jerusalem. If anyone’s got the answers…” Nile trails off. </p><p>“Does ‘OG’ mean ‘old guys?’” Nicky asks. </p><p>“No, no, my heart, original gangstas,” Joe responds. “It’s a fair question, Nile. It’s something we’ve discussed— many times over the years.” </p><p>“Loudly,” Nicky says drily. “We get angry.” </p><p>“Not with each other,” Joe says. “Well— sometimes with each other, but mostly we’re frustrated at the situation, the violence—</p><p>“The withholding of resources,” Nicky says. “But we come back to the same conclusion every time.” </p><p>Nile waits, and sure enough, Nicky continues, gazing into Joe’s eyes. “We met in a battle for control of Jerusalem. One that’s lasted a millennia and started long before either of us were born.” </p><p>“It’s a complex, beautiful, confusing, wonderful city,” Joe says. “We’ll likely die with humankind fighting over control of it. But we know the heart of Jerusalem—” </p><p>“That those who love it for the right reasons, live there for the right reasons, pray there for the right reasons— they’ll always live in the walls of the Old City together. They’ll pray together. They’ll shop at the same markets. Peace is between yourself and your neighbor, not warring governments,” Nicky says, and Joe presses a kiss to his cheek. </p><p>“We’ll have to take you there, Nile,” Joe says. “There’s this fantastic Iraqi restaurant in the Shuk, Azura; they make the best beef sofrito—” </p><p>“<em>Yusuf</em>,” Nicky complains. “Why did you have to say that? I’m going to be craving it for weeks. ” </p><p>Joe chuckles and presses another kiss to Nicky’s mouth. Nile watches as Joe swipes a leftover apple slice through some errant honey and holds it up to Nicky. </p><p>“Next year in Jerusalem, <em>ya hayati</em>. ” </p><p>Nicky takes the apple and pops it into his mouth. “Next year in Jerusalem, <em>neshama sheli</em>.” </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“One day in Jerusalem is like a thousand days, one month like a thousand months, and one year like a thousand years. Dying there is like dying in the first sphere of heaven.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>—KAAB AL-AHBAR, Fadail</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s not easy to be a Jerusalemite. A thorny path runs alongside its joys. The great are small inside the Old City. Popes, patriarchs, kings all remove their crowns. It is the city of the King of Kings; and earthly kings and lords are not its masters. No human can ever possess Jerusalem.” </em></p><p><em>—JOHN TLEEL, “I Am Jerusalem,” Jerusalem Quarterly</em>
</p><p>---</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did I write this fic just to talk about how much I love Iced Aromas and this one restaurant in the Shuk? Yes. </p><p>I had two wonderful betas for this story. First, Indus, who was so amazing. Her thoughtfulness and experience with Islam and the Middle East was a tremendous boon to my own study of religion and history. And then Isa, who saw that I posted this fic on AO3 and STILL went through and beta'd because she's awesome and wonderful and I hadn't realized I used the wrong accent on Nicolò in this entire fic. </p><p>I also couldn't have written this fic without the book Jerusalem: the Biography by Simon Sebag Montefiore (what a name). It's an incredible testament to the city and a tremendously thoughtful historical account. If you have time to read about 700 pages about one city alone, I highly recommend it. </p><p>I listened to the song Jerusalem, New York, Berlin by Vampire Weekend a LOT while writing this. It's a VERY Joe/Nicky song and is very good. </p><p><a href="www.flawlessassholes.tumblr.com">Follow me on Tumblr.</a> Kudos, comments, anything, I cherish every single one and will respond to them all. </p><p>Please be gentle, it's my first work in the fandom and I'm tremendously proud of this fic and hold it very close to my heart. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I made art</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I made a cover-ish thing for this fic. It's not great and I don't claim to be an artist, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I also just wanted to bump this fic because <a href="www.yogurtfordinner.tumblr.com">Isa</a> went through and beta'd this fic AGAIN so it deserves to be read more. LOVE Y'ALL, the response has been amazing, and I hope to have timestamps in this verse soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Next year in Jerusalem, a lil art by me. It's not great but I hope you like it!</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Did I write this fic just to talk about how much I love Iced Aromas and this one restaurant in the Shuk? Yes. </p><p>I had two wonderful betas for this story. First, Indus, who was so amazing. Her thoughtfulness and experience with Islam and the Middle East was a tremendous boon to my own study of religion and history. And then Isa, who saw that I posted this fic on AO3 and STILL went through and beta'd because she's awesome and wonderful and I hadn't realized I used the wrong accent on Nicolò in this entire fic. </p><p>I also couldn't have written this fic without the book Jerusalem: the Biography by Simon Sebag Montefiore (what a name). It's an incredible testament to the city and a tremendously thoughtful historical account. If you have time to read about 700 pages about one city alone, I highly recommend it. </p><p>I listened to the song Jerusalem, New York, Berlin by Vampire Weekend a LOT while writing this. It's a VERY Joe/Nicky song and is very good. </p><p><a href="www.flawlessassholes.tumblr.com">Follow me on Tumblr.</a> Kudos, comments, anything, I cherish every single one and will respond to them all. </p><p>Please be gentle, it's my first work in the fandom and I'm tremendously proud of this fic and hold it very close to my heart. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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